Chương 10
I sat absolutely still.
“What?”
“The sitter told police Caroline called her and said she didn’t need her that afternoon.”
My mouth went dry.
“That is impossible.”
“I saw the statement.”
“Caroline told me the sitter canceled.”
“I know.”
“Why would she lie?”
“I don’t know.”
I could hear my own breathing.
Cross kept driving.
“When did you learn this?”
“Three days after the funeral.”
“And you never told me.”
“I tried.”
“No.”
“You were barely sleeping.”
“No.”
“You were taking pain medication.”
“No.”
“You had just buried your wife and kid.”
“Stop deciding what I could survive.”
The words came out louder than I intended.
Cross flinched enough that the car drifted slightly before correcting.
I grabbed the door handle.
“Watch the road.”
“I am.”
“Then answer me.”
“I decided wrong.”
The simplicity of it silenced me.
Cross kept both hands on the wheel.
“I thought there would be time.”
His voice broke.
“I thought you’d stabilize and I’d tell you everything when you could actually hear it.”
“And then?”
“And then every month that passed made it harder.”
I stared into darkness.
“Coward.”
“Yes.”
He did not defend himself.
I hated him for making my anger complicated.
When we reached the house, Hannah was already there.
I heard Lucy running down the front hall before the door fully opened.
“Mr. Grant!”
Hannah called after her.
“Slow down.”
Lucy ignored her.
Small arms wrapped around my leg.
I nearly lost my balance.
Cross caught my elbow.
I jerked away.
Lucy looked up.
“Did the doctor fix your eyes?”
Every adult in the hall went silent.
I crouched carefully.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Doctors are annoyingly slow.”
“Mommy says that too.”
Hannah sighed.
“I said insurance companies are slow.”
“Same thing.”
Cross laughed before covering it with a cough.
I touched Lucy’s hair.
“Something might be working.”
Her hands found my face.
“Can you see me?”
“No.”
“Can you see anything?”
“No.”
She considered that.
Then she whispered, “Maybe your eyes are waking up.”
The sentence nearly broke me.
I stood too quickly.
“Hannah, I need Martin here.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Cross took a step toward the library.
I blocked him with my cane.
He stopped.
“What?”
“You’re not coming in.”
His breathing changed.
“Grant.”
“I need one room where I know exactly who heard what.”
He stood there for several seconds.
Then his keys jingled in his hand.
“Fine.”
He walked toward the front door.
Before leaving, he stopped.
“I’ll find Voss.”
The door closed.
Martin arrived an hour later carrying two document envelopes and a mood.
“I have good news and bad news.”
“Give me the bad.”
“The hospital says some of your older imaging was migrated to cold storage and may take several business days.”
“The good?”
“They found your discharge summary.”
Paper landed on the desk.
“And?”
Martin did not answer.
I heard him unfold a page.
“Read it.”
He cleared his throat.
“Grant.”
“Read it.”
His voice became formal.
“Severe bilateral ocular trauma with retinal injury, optic nerve edema, and significant acute visual impairment.”
He stopped.
“Continue.”
Martin hesitated.
Then he read the next line.
“Visual prognosis guarded pending resolution of edema and serial neuro-ophthalmic assessment.”
I did not move.
Hannah inhaled behind me.
“Serial assessment,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Not permanent blindness.”
“No.”
“Not irreversible.”
“No.”
My hand went to the desk because the room no longer felt level.
“Who signed it?”
Martin’s voice dropped.
“Dr. Samuel Keene, neuro-ophthalmology.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yes.”
A page turned.
“Co-signed by Vernon Hale.”
For several seconds, nobody breathed normally.
Then my phone rang on the desk.
Hannah looked at the screen.
Her voice went flat.
“It’s Dr. Hale.”
“Put it on speaker,” I said.
Hannah touched the screen.
“Grant?”
Hale’s voice filled the room with the same practiced calm that had carried me through surgeries, funerals, and five years of Thursdays.
“Yes.”
“I heard you saw another ophthalmologist.”
Martin shifted beside the desk.
Hannah went completely still.
I said, “News travels fast.”
“Daniel called me.”
Of course he had.
“When?”
“After he dropped you home.”
Cross had told me he would find Voss.
He had apparently found time for one more errand.
“What did Daniel say?”
“That you’re frightened.”
“I’m curious.”
“There’s a difference.”
“There usually is.”
Hale exhaled.
“Grant, whatever that doctor told you, I need you to understand that traumatic vision loss can produce confusing test results.”
“Did you know my visual prognosis was listed as guarded?”
The silence on the phone was immediate.
Martin looked up.
Hannah’s hand tightened around the back of a chair.
Hale answered carefully.
“Where did you get that wording?”
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Did you know serial neuro-ophthalmic assessment was recommended?”
“Yes.”
“Did I receive it?”
“You received follow-up care.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Grant.”
“Did I receive serial neuro-ophthalmic assessment?”
Another pause.
“No.”
Martin lowered his eyes to the paper.
I could hear the faint rasp of his thumb against its edge.
“Why?”
“Because your condition changed.”
“What changed?”
“The edema resolved.”
“And?”
“And there was no meaningful visual recovery.”
“According to whom?”
“According to the clinical examinations.”
“Yours?”
“Mine, among others.”
“Name the others.”
Hale did not answer.
“Vernon.”
“There were several physicians involved.”
“Name one.”
“I don’t have your chart in front of me.”
“Dr. Samuel Keene?”
Silence.
Longer this time.
“Yes.”
“Did Keene examine me after discharge?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Hale’s tone hardened slightly.
“Because he was not managing your care.”
“He wrote the recommendation.”
“He wrote a discharge recommendation based on acute findings.”
“And you overruled it.”
“I made a clinical judgment.”
Something inside me went cold and orderly.
It was a sensation I knew from business negotiations just before someone lied badly enough to become useful.
“Did you document that judgment?”
Hale said nothing.
Martin raised his head.
I continued.
“Did you document why serial assessment was discontinued?”
“I documented your treatment.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I’m not doing a hostile chart review over the phone.”
“Then come here.”
May you like
“No.”
The answer arrived too quickly.
